


Christmas Blue

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5516738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories; mostly sad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Worse Things

There were worse things than being alone on Christmas, Elizabeth Keen thought morosely to herself, shoving her cold hands deeper into the pockets of her faded anorak and allowing her steps to carry her around another unfamiliar block, past storefronts secured by metal gates and the occasional glitter of liquor store neon.

She and Red were holed up in a gem of an apartment, tiny but exquisitely appointed in contrast to the poverty of the city street on which it was located. Their previous contact had unexpectedly vanished, and their next associate was not expected until after the new year.

Nothing to do but wait.

She stopped at a crosswalk out of habit, then noticed the lack of traffic and crossed against the light with an inner snort of disgust. When would it finally sink in that she was no longer a law-abiding citizen? Even such a small habit could be a tip-off to watching eyes that she didn't belong here.

She didn't belong anywhere. Not any more.

Raymond Reddington seemed supremely comfortable with his rootless existence. He could sit for hours in his shirtsleeves, drinking wine and listening to music, or reading the newspaper with his stocking feet propped up on the couch, a tiny pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

Without resource to a cookbook, he had shopped for and prepared all their meals for the last week, and even washed all the dishes too once he learned how little Liz enjoyed that humble duty.

He was in so many ways such an uncomplicated companion - quiet, tidy, dependable.

Then why couldn't she force herself to return to the apartment?

Liz paused in front of a store window, decorated for the season with tiny colorful lights. A miniature fir stood in the center of the display, covered in more of the same lights, plus tinsel and a handful of small, glitter-flecked ornaments shaped like various birds.

Red seldom denied her anything that it was in his power to bestow - so why had he forbidden her a Christmas tree, or any form of decoration indicative of the season?

He had refused to explain himself, merely raised one hand and given her an annoyingly supercilious smile.

"Please, Lizzie, spare me the tawdry trappings of this over-commercialized month. Let's just pretend it's January already."

If she were alone, she could at least decorate a small tree, or arrange red candles and pine cones on the fireplace mantle as Sam had been wont to do.

No wreath on the door to betray their presence, that she could understand, but no Christmas dinner? Not even a glass of eggnog, sprinkled with fresh-grated nutmeg?

"Noxious in both texture and taste, my dear, and pasteurized to the point that you might as well be drinking the watered down glue it so resembles."

She had slammed out of the house at that point, leaving him standing in front of the fireplace, glass in hand, and watching her leave without making an effort to detain her.

An owl. A dove. A peacock.

She stared at the ornaments, willing the tears in the back of her eyes not to fall.

Christmas meant family to her. However poorly Sam's Nebraska relatives had understood her, she had always been welcome at their sprawling holiday gatherings, and every year, her mailbox had filled up with greeting cards from people she barely remembered.

Tom had always marveled at the long letters and photographs she had received with those cards. He had never received a single Christmas card by mail during their marriage, although he brought home a scant few handmade cards from his classroom, signed in crayon scribbles, or thick red and green markers.

This was the first year she had not purchased, written, and mailed cards back to all of them. But her carefully maintained holiday address book, the brown, felt-bound square emblazoned with reindeer that Sam had given her when she was 12, was now stashed away in an FBI evidence locker. 

Were they thinking of her tonight, as she was thinking of them?

Liz gave in and allowed the tears to roll down her face for a moment, then sniffed and wiped her eyes, noting the cold puffs of her breath hanging in the cooling night air.

She needed to go back. Perhaps Red would have had the delicacy to retreat to his own bedroom.

The apartment was a mere two blocks away, but it felt like a mile to her weary legs and leaden heart.

She unlocked and pushed open the door to find Red sitting on the couch with his back to her, his long legs stretched out towards the fire, a book open on his lap. 

"So, you're back." 

His deep voice sounded sleepy and unwelcoming. Shedding her anorak and hanging it on a hook by the front door, she walked past him to warm her hands briefly at the fire before turning to look at him.

In place of his customary formal dress, he was clad in a dark blue wool robe, belted over plaid flannel pajamas in green and navy. His long, narrow feet were bare, a scatter of pale hair on the back of each toe glinting in the firelight.

It must be later than she thought. Liz hadn't bothered to look at her phone for hours. 

"I was walking," she said, as if in explanation. She had missed dinner, spent all of Christmas eve wandering alone as the streets emptied of people.

Red made a small sound, almost a sniff. She looked at him more closely. His eyes were deep-shadowed, and his pajama top was buttoned tightly to his throat, the soft flesh of his neck winter-pale against the jewel tones that brightened his green eyes.

"Don't tell me you missed me," she said, wanting to hurt him, but unable to stop a little of her own pain and confusion from creeping into her snide comment. 

His twitching lips pursed up into a grimace.

"Sometimes, I can't tell you anything," he responded, looking away from her and around the room, as if some more congenial companion might magically appear from the shadows of the hall that led to their bedrooms and shared bathroom.

Liz put her hands on her hips and glared down at him.

"You don't even try, Raymond Reddington, so don't pretend I should somehow understand."

His eyebrows climbed and his jaw clenched as she used his full name for the first time, like a mother scolding a wayward child, but she was too furious to draw back. If he was going to treat her like an unsatisfactory employee, and forbid her even the meager comforts of a few of the many Christmas traditions she had previously cherished, then he could at least explain why.

"You're the profiler," he responded at last, the chilling anger in his tone familiar although it had never before been directed at her. She quailed beneath his gaze, her hands suddenly as cold as when she had entered the room.

Red looked at that moment as though he hated the sight of her, and all at once the reality of her utter dependence on him, the tenuous nature of the bond she had felt developing between them, came crashing down on her.

She wouldn't resort to tears though, she just wouldn't.

Liz turned her back on him and stared at the fireplace.

'You're the profiler.'

Whenever he referred to that first dinner they had shared, not eating, but sipping their drinks, her own words came back to her.

How did she make him vulnerable at Christmas?

Staring down at the dancing flames, her mind finally on him, on Red and not herself and all she had so recently lost, the answer burst into her consciousness like fireworks, or skywriting, so huge and bright that it must have been there all along.

She had just failed to look up and see it, absorbed in her own misery.

Red lost his family at Christmas.

If she celebrated the holiday with him now, if he allowed her to become family to him in even this small way, it would be that much more difficult to return to a life alone. Unwittingly, she had been begging him to recreate some part of the most painful and traumatic event of his life.

Even her solitary walk tonight must have reactivated those old feelings of abandonment and loss. She could have stayed here with him, eaten an ordinary dinner, perhaps watched an old movie, and helped him through this difficult time.

He had asked her for her help, in his own elliptical fashion, and she had failed him once again.

"It's late, Lizzie," he said behind her, sounding weary and defeated, but no longer angry. "We both need to get some sleep."

Liz could feel her shoulders slumping in response, the tears spilling down her cheeks as she fought for composure. She often found him dozing on the couch in the morning, in the same position in which she left him the previous night.

Red didn't sleep well in the best of circumstances.

It would be so easy, but so cowardly, to just retreat to her room. She rubbed at her eyes with her fingertips, brushing the tears from her cheeks with her palms, and gathered her courage.

"Lizzie?" he said, looking up at her as she approached the couch and stood looking down at him, a smaller figure from this perspective, his thick eyelashes glinting in the firelight that picked up the silver in his hair and his sideburns and the faintest trace of stubble on his usually smooth cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Red," she said quietly, holding his gaze as she dropped to her knees beside him.

He looked startled and a little grim at finding her suddenly so close to him, but before he could speak, she leaned closer and laid her head on his chest, curving her arms around the bulk of him as best she could.

"Lizzie?"

His chest rumbled with his deep voice, and the wool of his robe was scratchy beneath her cheek. He smelled both familiar, the scent of safety, and unexpectedly enticing, as if she was close enough to his skin for the first time to respond to him as a man.

"Red," she whispered against him, feeling his heart beating, her head rising and falling with his every breath. She breathed in time with him, her eyes squeezed closed, her hands clutching him without moving or releasing, not a caress but more a clinging, as though if she lost her grip on him she would drown.

Very lightly, his arms came around her, his hands touching her back and then stroking up and down in long, comforting movements. She could barely feel his hands, just the pressure through her winter layers of fleece and cotton.

She never wanted to move again. If she could be frozen in place here, with his arms around her, she could die content.

He always forgave her, even when she deserved no forgiveness.

But would she ever forgive herself?


	2. Christmas Dreams

The snow was still falling when he told her goodnight, fat flakes drifting past the glass walls of the Denver condo to fall through into the slush of the still busy streets. Twelve floors up, no sound penetrated the thickly carpeted space, filled with a carefully curated mix of antique furniture and bright modern art.

"It's early, Red," Liz protested, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, her legs curled beneath her, the high, plush collar of her floor length cream velvet robe turned up at the neck, a mug of spiced and spiked hot cider on the end table beside her. 

Red shrugged, his jacket and tie over his right arm, a simliar mug in his hand. He was formally dressed in his customary attire of long sleeves and a vest, his suit pants and dress shoes immaculate as always.

Liz was wearing her new robe, his Christmas gift, over a similarly elegant sleeveless black beaded gown.

They had eaten dinner in a small restaurant serving German specialities, attended a live performance of Dickens' A Christmas Carol, then returned to the condo to exchange their simple gifts. After their previous stop in Hawaii, a warmer robe was a thoughtful choice.

In return, Liz had given Red round platinum cufflinks, engraved on the hidden underside with the two parts of a quote from Shakespeare, 'Out of this nettle, danger' and 'we pluck this flower, safety'. 

"I plan to take a long bath, and sleep," he informed her, his eyes crinking, his smile fond but a little distant. 

Liz smiled back at him, brushing a loose lock of blond hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Trying not to let the sadness blooming in her heart show on her face.

"Merry Christmas, then, Red. Switch off the lights?"

He gave her a slight nod, holding her gaze as if he meant to speak, then his chin firmed and he turned away.

Their bedrooms were side by side, connected by a door she had never tried to open. She listened to his door shut softly before turning back to stare into the dying fire.

The wood had burned down to coals, still radiating heat along with a deep orange glow. In the darkness, the white lights of the city outside glittered through the falling snow.

A lonely Christmas, for all Red had tried to arrange a busy and happy day for them.

Liz took a slow sip of her cider, cradling the warmth of the mug between her hands. Her mind kept returning, over and over, to the sprig of mistletoe hanging above the front door of the restaurant. She had not noticed it until Red dodged to one side with a laugh.

"Careful, Lizzie!"

His eyes had invited her to laugh with him, as he tugged her to avoid the decoration dangling from a red ribbon. On their way out she had thought she might manage to pause him beneath it, but it was gone, stolen perhaps by a more enterprising patron.

Why did she want to feel Raymond Reddington's lips on hers, however briefly, this Christmas?

Liz took another sip and contemplated her own emotions. She wasn't needy or panicked, as she had been when first on the run; being rescued from the box in the Post Office by Red's associates had allowed her finally to turn her back on that life.

If any regrets about the FBI ever resurfaced, she had only to bring to mind how her former colleagues had stared at her through the glass.

That tiny bunch of mistletoe.

Did she just want to know that Red saw her as a woman, not just a heedless girl? She had accused him of treating her like a child, when they were first becoming acquainted with each other. She had even wondered if he was her father.

Her face flamed at the memory. 

How foolish he must have thought her, then, knowing what she had done.

Liz drained her mug and set it aside. With his wealth and his connections, Red could have any woman he wanted. She was special to him, yes, but clearly not in that way.

It was time to stop fantasizing about the unattainable, and start building a new life based on reality. If only she could force herself to want that.

***

Red started the bath running, then began unbuttoning his vest and shirt, staring into the bathroom mirror as he did so.

Tan from the black sand beach of their recent hideaway, his face nevertheless showed the exhaustion he faced from chronic insomnia - deep circles beneath his eyes, the tight lines of his jaw as he ground his teeth to avoid snapping unnecessarily.

An old man. No fit companion for the lovely young woman Lizzie had become.

He needed to keep that firmly in mind. Pulling his undershirt over his head, he surveyed his aging body with a jaundiced eye. Fleshy and dissipated, his torso winter pale in contrast to the tan of his face, neck and forearms. Red stepped out of his trousers and boxers together, watched the darker bulk of his genitals shifting in anticipation of the attentions his bath promised.

He had been alone, without the touch of a willing woman, for far too long. What was wrong with him, that he didn't want to watch Lizzie suffer the pangs of jealousy, or even worse, appear indifferent? 

They had come to some tentative peace with each other, once he rescued her from her former friends. Red was greedy for as much time with her as possible, as many memories as he could manage, to stow away for the lonely years to come. 

She would start building a new life for herself, eventually. And it should be a life in which he played no part.

Until then, his own hand needed to be enough. 

Red sank deep into the bath with a pained sigh, and laid his head back against a folded towel as he allowed the heat of the water to register. He would think about Lizzie in that soft velvet robe and nothing else, lying back with her glorious hair fanned out beneath her, and how it would feel to tug at the belt of that robe, unwrapping her slowly, with great anticipation, like the best Christmas present ever.

 

***

She knew it was only a dream, but somehow she couldn't awaken.

Dembe clutched at the railing of a small white sailboat, his face wet with tears. The sun was setting over the empty horizon in a frenetic display of scarlet and orange and peach, the dancing waves picking up and reflecting the colors until the earlier deep blue of a perfect evening was all but drowned in dazzling light.

A long bundle wrapped in white lay motionless on the deck beside Dembe. He bent, his shoulders shaking with sobs, and pushed it, heavy and man-shaped, over the side of the boat.

It sank almost at once.

Weighted. He must have weighted it down.

Liz flailed in her bed against the horror of it, the unmarked, anonymous, watery grave, and found herself sitting up in bed, her face as wet as Dembe's.

Christmas. In Denver.

Not yet Christmas future.

***

He couldn't stop looking, although he knew it was only a dream.

All but unrecognizable in a hooded down jacket and snow boots, Elizabeth Keen sat alone on the porch of a small wooden house, in a bleak winter landscape he recognized as somewhere in Eastern Europe. She rocked back and forth in a high-backed swing, her breath white in the winter air, staring at the weapon on her lap.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Not her gun. His. 

The wordless message he had arranged so long ago. 

You will need to protect yourself without me, from now on.

A padded mailing box lay discarded on the porch floor beneath the open gun case, along with a handful of junk mail. No personal letters or cards.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Her blue eyes were wide and expressionless as she lifted the gun, her lips bright with red lipstick as she parted them.

She closed her eyes as her teeth closed down on the muzzle of the gun.

He knew that look of resolution all too well.

The swing shuddered.

Red erupted from the bed, found himself naked, awake, and shaking just inches from the connecting door between their rooms.

Christmas. In Denver.

Not yet Christmas future.

***

Liz stared at the connecting door. Had she heard something from beyond it?

"Red?" she called out into the darkness. "Red?"

No answer.

Slipping naked from bed, she caught up her new robe and tied the belt tightly about her waist. She crossed the room and pressed her ear to the connecting door.

Nothing.

Did she dare to knock?

As she was trying to collect her nerve, trying to decide what to do next, she heard his voice.

"Lizzie? Lizzie, are you alright?"

Liz took a step back and stared at the doorknob, which was beginning to move. She could turn on a light and answer him, or she could bolt the door.

She could even slip back into bed and pretend to be asleep. 

Had that really been a vision, or just an unusually detailed nightmare?

***

Her voice.

Was she dreaming?

Or did she actually want him to answer?

Red stared around his darkened room, then crossed swiftly to the closet and pulled out his robe, quilted beige silk, the lining printed with blue and green palm trees. Fumbling with the belt, wishing it hit him lower than mid-thigh, he called back softly.

"Lizzie? Lizzie, are you alright?"

He turned the doorknob slowly, pushed with minimal pressure to find it unlocked and opening beneath his touch.

The room beyond was dimly lit, and smelled vaguely floral, like her familiar shampoo. 

"Lizzie?"

He was whispering as he pushed the door all the way open.

***

 

She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Red to enter the room, knowing he could see her in the soft glow of the dimmed light on her nightstand. He was wearing the robe he had purchased for himself in Hawaii and nothing else, his feet bare, his eyes glinting as they fixed on her, seated cross-legged in the center of her bed, her robe pulled tight to her neck.

"Come and sit down."

Liz patted the bedside, felt herself blushing as he raised his brows at her before approaching the bed.

"Have you been crying?" 

His expression changed from mocking to concerned as he seated himself on the edge of the bed, knees pressed together as he turned to face her as best he could.

She nodded, allowing herself only a glance at the open neck of his robe, dark hair against pale flesh. 

"It was just a bad dream," she said, staring into his eyes, which glistened as if he too had been weeping. Which wasn't possible. It must be a trick of the light.

He lifted his right hand as if to touch her cheek, then drew it back.

"You don't usually remember your dreams," he responded quietly. "Was it quite vivid?"

She nodded again, then reached out for his hand and clutched it tightly. His fingers were dry and warm to her touch. They twitched as if in protest, then lay still in her grasp.

"Did you know at once that it was a dream, but you were unable to awaken?"

Just for a moment, the room took on an unearthly feeling of chill, the thick curtains at the window alcove fluttering without wind.

It was all she could do not to pitch herself forward into his arms and cling for comfort. 

Red moved just as the thought began to register, up on his bare feet with his body squarely between her and the window.

She gasped aloud as he flung back the curtains to expose the closed window, the lights of the city far below shut away by wide venetian blinds. Empty.

Liz stared at his broad back, the way the quilted silk clung tightly to his form, outlining every dip and curve. 

"I dreamed a similar dream," he said huskily, his back still to her as he drew the curtains closed once again. He glanced over his shoulder at her, then tugged at his robe, adjusting it, his head cocked to one side.

She could barely force out the words in the smallest of whispers.

"Was it ... a dream about death?" 

He nodded, letting his hand fall from the curtain.

"A terrible dream?" she persisted.

"The worst."

Without meaning to, she choked back a sob.

That brought him around and back to her bedside, his left hand still clutching at his robe.

"Now Lizzie, this is no way to spend Christmas," he said wearily, his shoulders slumping as if the surge of adrenaline that had propelled him to his feet was receding. "We both need to get some sleep ..."

"Sleep here with me, Red," she interrupted him. "Don't leave me alone. Not tonight."

***

Red stared at her, sitting cross-legged in her soft, cream-colored robe. He had admired her sunning herself in Hawaii in the smallest of bikinis, crimson with tiny white polka dots, knew almost every inch of her now-golden skin. And yet the mystery remained, the desire to touch that supple, youthful skin, to run his lips over each of the curves his eyes had caressed.

He was close enough to reach out and slide his hands inside her robe, strong enough to pull her up and into his arms, to press himself against her in the guise of affection.

But true caring, real love, meant walking away.

"We need to sleep, Lizzie," he protested, sadness coloring his voice even as he tried for a lighter note. "I'll leave the door open, so you won't be alone."

He turned away from her soft sigh and her disappointed pout, forced himself to walk out of her room and back into his own, which felt empty and cool, as if he had turned his back and walked away from the blaze of a campfire.

She was starting to want more from him than it was safe or wise for her to offer. He had planned to separate anyway in the next month. Perhaps he should put that plan into action soon.

Red shrugged out of his robe and slid back into his lonely bed, rolling onto one side and tucking a pillow into the curve of his body.

Dickens was a fantastic storyteller. But it had only been only a dream, after all, not a warning. Hadn't it?


	3. Christmas Morning

She opened the door in her red velvet Christmas robe, looking sleepy and rumpled, giving him a listless smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Come on in, Red."

"I'm sorry I missed your party last night, Lizzie," he responded, doffing his hat as he stepped into the small living room of her tenth floor apartment and gazing around in some confusion. A live tree, decorated in red and gold, stood beside a cold fireplace that smelled of smoke. Beyond it, near the kitchen nook, a small table stood covered in a white cloth, with two places still set with pristine holiday china and gold rimmed glassware.

She shrugged.

Red looked around, trying and failing to imagine the party he had missed. Where were the decorations, the presents, the detritus of a long evening with friends?

For that matter, why was the only visible seating in the small space the dark gray loveseat in front of the fire and the two dining chairs?

"What do you want?" she asked him, wandering into the kitchen nook and pouring herself a mug of coffee. Not offering any to him, or to Dembe, who loomed behind him like a silent shadow, watching without audible comment.

"I just stopped by to give you your gift," he said, blinking at the back of her head as she stirred cream into her coffee, still not meeting his eyes. "Lizzie, what's wrong?"

She turned then, and gave him a glare of pure exasperation.

"Nothing is wrong."

Setting down her coffee mug, she reached for the small package in silver paper that Dembe had pulled from his pocket and handed to Red. He assessed her as she tore the paper open without ceremony. Her blue eyes were deep-shadowed, her tangled hair pulled back into a loose, messy braid. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a bright, pure crimson.

"They are beautiful."

She stared down at the sapphire and diamond earrings as if mesmerized, and Red preened inwardly for a moment. The design was unique, each stone flawless.

"Thank you, Red."

She snapped the box closed, then slipped it into the pocket of her robe. Then she raised her eyebrows.

"Was there anything else?"

Red stared at her, finally piecing together the scene in front of him. 

Not a party. A private dinner.

In his selfish desire to avoid spending time with her FBI friends, to escape their curious, questioning eyes, he had left her alone on Christmas eve.

Why had he assumed it was a party? Was it the way she had asked him so casually? Or the smug little curl of her mouth when he accepted the invitation, which he assumed meant she planned to show him off to her guests?

Famous criminal Raymond Reddington.

"Well?"

She sounded impatient, lifting her mug and taking another sip of her coffee. It smelled dark and strong, and suddenly he wanted a cup more than almost anything in the world. 

He wanted to sit on that inexpensive little loveseat and drink coffee with her, he wanted to build up the fire and cook her a filling breakfast, he wanted ...

Liz brushed past him and Dembe to the front door and opened it. An unmistakable message.

"I'll see you at the office next week." She tilted her head in the direction of the exterior hall.

Go. She wanted them to go.

"Merry Christmas, Elizabeth," said Dembe, leaning down and pressing a kiss to her cheek as he stepped towards the door. She flung her arms around him briefly and clung to him, and he patted her back with his big hands before releasing her with one final squeeze.

"Merry Christmas."

Red raised his brows in entreaty, but she just stared at him, the smile fading from her formerly animated face.

No, he was not forgiven.

He donned his hat once more and smoothed the brim, delaying the moment he would follow Dembe into the hall. Into the winter morning, into the back of his black sedan, into the empty stretch of time in which he would try and fail to wipe away the imagined memory of that table for two, the flicker of firelight, and Lizzie smiling across the table at him in the glow of the Christmas tree lights. 

Gone. Perhaps never to be offered again.

He couldn't even say Merry Christmas to her, because he had ruined her Christmas.

Had that been the whole of her intended gift to him? An intimate dinner? 

His heart pounded as he stared at her, so hard he feared she could see it through his customary layers of suit coat, and tailored vest, and freshly ironed shirt. 

"Have a Merry Christmas, Red. Somewhere else."

She opened the door a little wider, her expression sardonic.

He tipped his hat and obeyed her, making no effort to kiss her cheek, or embrace her, or even press her hand.

He didn't deserve her attention, or her affection. She deserved so much better than anything he could offer.

Perhaps it was better this way.

As the door closed behind him, Dembe opened his arms, and Red fell hard into his embrace, shaking with the effort not to sob aloud. 

They stood there in the hall for a long minute before Red righted himself and strode away towards the elevator, his eyes wet and his jaw set. 

He had survived for decades by moving on from his mistakes, moving on quickly and not looking back.

But this Christmas, he feared, like that terrible night so long ago, would follow him into his very grave.


	4. Spa Day

"No ylang-ylang," Raymond Reddington ordered, his deep voice slightly muffled by the position in which he was currently reclining on the massage table, his face pressed down into a padded face cradle and his body exposed save for a small white towel draped over his bare buttocks.

"Yes, sir."

One of his many Christmas gifts to himself was a day of spa treatments, and this 90 minute, four-handed massage should be just the thing for the soreness that plagued his neck after too many hours on his jet. With all his old injuries, only regular and vigorous exercise kept his chronic pain manageable. 

But tonight he planned to feel good. Hot water and steam and a body scrub had rendered him clean and relaxed, and the warmth of the room, combined with the heated massage table, was threatening to unwind his controls.

Listening to the clink of glass as the custom-scented massage cream was being mixed for him, Red turned his thoughts with practiced ease away from any such temptation. This was not that sort of establishment. And the woman he really wanted was not - would never be - available to him anyway.

The sounds ceased, and footsteps approached either side of the table.

""Smell this for me."

He sniffed as directed, finding the pungent odor exactly to his liking.

"Oh, my god, yes," he groaned, as strong hands moved down either side of his spine, touching the scarred mess of his back without hesitation, the pressure and speed perfect. Exactly in sync.

Red spread his legs slightly wider as he relaxed, feeling the towel slipping lower but uncaring as the back of his legs began to loosen under the relentless kneading of the strong, skilled pairs of hands.

By the end of the massage, lying on his back as his feet were being rubbed simultaneously, his muscles felt as loose as if he had been swimming for hours. 

"Take your time."

As they left the room, Red sent his silent thanks after the massage staff, still unsure if they were male or female, having kept his eyes shut the entire time. Unstrung, he allowed his thoughts to drift, warm and safe.

"Red!"

The click of the door lock was unwelcome, her voice even more so. Even before he looked over to find Lizzie, fully dressed from head to toe in black, with a weapon in each hand and a frown on her face, he could feel the back of his neck beginning to knot up again.

"I think they followed me. We have to get out of here."

Red opened one baleful eye at her. She was staring at his exposed chest as if she'd never seen it before. He did look different, he supposed, deeply tan and slick with massage cream, not covered with blood and pale with shock from being shot.

"Dembe?" he managed, trying and failing to imagine that her eyes were remaining above his waist. It was, after all, a very small towel.

"He's getting dressed," she responded, in a breathy voice, her eyes sweeping up and down his form in evident appreciation.

Going on the offensive was the only option.

Forcing a lazy and somewhat menacing smile of invitation onto his face, Red rolled to his side, one hand on the towel, the other propping his head up on his elbow.

"Well, as you can see, I left all my clothes in the dressing room ..." he drawled, enjoying the way her bright blue eyes darted back up to meet his, widening as a flush spread across her face. She licked her lips, then swallowed, breathing through her mouth as he held her gaze.

Desire. 

He had never thought to see that when she looked at him, for all his secret yearnings, his near constant, pathetic fantasies. Lizzie was looking at him as if she wanted to touch him, her weapons hanging at her sides, leaning forward and licking her lips again.

She was beauty, and power, and redemption, and Red would be willing to swear, although he didn't dare break eye contact to check, that his towel was completely inadequate to conceal his response to the caress of her gaze.

"Raymond, I have your clothes."

Dembe stepped swiftly into the room behind Lizzie, his face gleaming with sweat, the smell of eucalyptus from the steam room filling the air. 

"I have a car out back." 

Lizzie whirled and brushed past Dembe, vanishing into the hall.

Red gave his friend an exasperated stare, then pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the massage table.

"Your timing could use some improvement," he informed the tall man, hurrying into his clothes at the sound of gunfire from the direction of the spa lobby.

Dembe just rolled his eyes.

So it was to be Christmas on the run, once again. He didn't know whether taking Lizzie with them would be a dream come true, or a nightmare of self-abnegation.

But he was going to find out.


	5. No Mistletoe Needed

"He's been arrested?"

Red looked from Dembe's apologetic shrug over to the worried expression of the hotel manager.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Reddington."

Every Christmas, Red hosted a very exclusive holiday party at a luxury hotel somewhere in the world, the location announced less than twelve hours in advance, all guests and their families conveyed in safety and secrecy. He rarely attended in person, but he made sure that his far-flung operatives were able to reconnect with old friends and enjoy a semblance of a normal life.

"I don't suppose you ...?"

Red turned his eyes in appeal to Dembe, who just shrugged again.

"I am far too tall, Raymond."

Red looked down at his expensive and elegantly tailored tuxedo, his new shoes, and then over at the suit on the hanger.

Baggy, fuzzy red polyester, trimmed with white faux fur, and beside it, a luxuriant fake beard of equally blinding white. The tall boots and belt were shiny black vinyl. The hat sported both a tassel and a large brass bell.

He would jingle when he walked.

"Dembe?" he said again, unable to force himself to reach out a hand to the suit.

He had invited Lizzie to the party this year. Had planned to dance with her, pull her teasingly beneath the abundant mistletoe he had ordered placed throughout the spacious ballroom where the party would be held.

Was already starting, guests streaming in from all corners of the globe.

Only one person would be missing. Old Joe Doggett, a plump and avaricious banker, who had served as their Santa for so many years. His rosy cheeks and deep, hearty voice meant Christmas to a whole generation of children raised by Red's associates, some of them now in attendance with their own young offspring.

Red couldn't just substitute a stranger, even if hiring one to get so close to the children of so many dangerous men and women would be prudent.

"Arrested?" Red asked, hearing the Christmas music swelling in the ballroom. Trying to postpone the moment.

Instead of answering, Dembe lifted the fuzzy red and white jacket from the hanger and shook it out, his dark eyes appraising. 

"You'll only need a little padding," he mused.

Swallowing hard, Red glared at the hotel manager. 

"Fifteen minutes," he said. "I'll be out in fifteen minutes."

He could do this, for the families. Santa was only present for the first hour or so of the party. Lizzie might not even recognize him behind the thick curls of the long, fake beard.

***

Liz allowed herself a few moments of wonder before clamping her jaw and attempting an expression of mild pleasure. The ballroom decorations were spectacular, the food spread out on the tables on three sides of the room smelled heavenly, and the open bar at the center was serving an array of elegant cocktails along with French champagne and steaming coffee drinks rich with espresso and cream.

But where was Red?

As her eyes swept the room, looking for the curve of a familiar head, with short silver hair and a very distinctive tilt, her attention was drawn by the cries of children as Santa strode to his high-backed seat on a low stage, female elves in green and red cocktail dresses arraying themselves on either side with enormous crimson sacks bulging with gifts.

"Ho, Ho, Ho!"

Santa's voice rang out as Liz worked her way through the crowd, her eyes fixed on the excited line of waiting children, many with their parents at their sides.

She knew that voice.

Dembe appeared at her side as if by magic, his evening dress immaculate, a glass of something deep red and sparkling in his hand.

"Raymond is unavoidably detained .." he began, following her gaze to where Santa held a small girl with smooth golden skin and waist length dark hair on one knee, allowing her to whisper into his ear behind one tiny, cupped hand.

"I can see that," she responded, accepting the drink and taking a polite sip without tasting it. 

Dembe cleared his throat.

"It was a last minute emergency," he said, breaking off as Santa placed the little girl carefully on the floor and motioned to the next child in line, a boy with a crew cut and a rebellious pout.

Liz watched as Santa whispered in the boy's ear, instantly erasing the pout and replacing it with an excited grin. The child stared up into Santa's eyes, then buried his face momentarily against the red plush of his broad shoulder.

"He's good with children, isn't he?" she commented, taking another sip of the drink. Something mildly alcoholic with cranberries, exquisite layers of flavor and tiny, creamy bubbles.

"Yes, he is," Dembe agreed.

This wasn't at all the evening she had expected. There had been something new in Red's gaze when he invited her to this party, something challenging, something almost uncertain.

Liz had assumed there would be dancing, verbal fencing, perhaps even flirting. 

She never thought she would find herself watching Red calm a crying baby, or reassure a frightened toddler. Her heart twisted in her chest as she watched him. 

Somehow she had forgotten that Red had once been a father. Was it possible he would ever want to be a parent again?

****

Sitting up straight on the large, uncomfortable chair, Red pretended to ignore Lizzie and Dembe watching him play Santa for more than an hour. Occasionally they spoke in a desultory fashion, and once Dembe fetched them both a fresh drink, but for the most part they just stood and watched the seemingly endless array of children parading across the stage.

She probably saw this as a fitting role for him, Red thought bitterly to himself, taking a quick sip of water as he waited for the next child to approach. A fat old man giving away gifts. 

A grandfather, not the handsome prince she so clearly deserved, elegant in her sleeveless, deep green satin evening dress with her dark hair dressed high on her head.

For all he knew, his beard might even be white by now, rather than silver. He hadn't grown even a mustache for years.

The next child in line was no child.

The petite woman in the black vinyl mini-dress gave him a mischievous glance from between her impossibly long, artificial lashes before squirming suggestively onto his lap.

Red groaned inwardly.

The Santa suit was impossibly hot, so he had stripped down to boxers and T-shirt before donning it. And from the woman's giggle, she would be more than happy to increase his discomfort.

If that were even possible.

Red gave her a reproving shake of his head, then set her back on her feet. Joe might have permitted this in previous years, but even without all the watching eyes, Red had no interest in playing Santa and Mrs. Claus with his business associates.

"Children only, ho, ho, ho," he called out to the line over her shoulder.

But when he turned back to face the crowd, Dembe and Lizzie had vanished.

***

She had danced for what seemed like hours, eaten enough gourmet tidbits to constitute a meal sufficient to absorb the champagne to which she had resorted after Dembe stopped fetching her fizzy drinks.

Liz was tipsy, but still in sufficient possession of her faculties to note that while Santa had vanished from the stage, her host had not reappeared to mingle among his guests.

At almost midnight, the party was not showing any signs of winding down, although the families with young children had given way to gambling in one corner of the huge ballroom, while the live band on the stage played old dance tunes, never repeating them.

A bar with a grand piano had replaced the food formerly being served in the far corner of the room. Liz made her way to the dimly lit space, still looking around for any sign of Red.

There.

Partly concealed behind an evergreen decorated with twinkling lights, probably shielding a discreet exit, Liz spotted a red and white hat with a jingle bell sitting on the corner of a round cafe table for one. She collected an empty chair as she approached, then paused as Red, still in his Santa suit, looked up wearily and gave her a little shake of his head.

"No? You don't want my company, after flying me halfway around the world?"

Liz pulled the chair up to the table opposite Red, and then slowly seated herself when he didn't rise to assist her, gathering the long, shimmering folds of her gown carefully into her lap to avoid snagging the net underskirt.

"You should be dancing, Lizzie," he said in a low voice, taking a sip of his own champagne without offering her a refill from the bottle on the table between them.

Without responding, she drained her all but empty glass, then reached out and poured herself a drink.

This bottle was different. Something special, probably rare and expensive.

"You didn't want to change, and come dance with me?" she asked him, staring down at the tiny bubbles in her glass to avoid meeting his gaze. She wasn't the fresh faced young agent who had waltzed with him at the Syrian Embassy. But he had invited her to this party, then spent the evening avoiding her.

"I'm so sorry to disappoint you, Lizzie." She looked up to find him smiling at her, his mouth twisting into a wry, sad smile. "I had a most unfortunate accident with my evening dress, and so ..."

Red made a sweeping gesture with one hand, as if being trapped in a Santa suit was no more than an unpleasant jest, but Liz had known him long enough to watch his eyes, so unnaturally steady on her face. 

He was just waiting for her to make some joke; he probably had a witty retort, an elaborate story hovering at the tip of his tongue. His shoulders were hunched slightly, as if braced for her scorn.

All of a sudden she no longer felt like reproaching him, or even flirting with him.

***

Red stared at Lizzie, who had seated herself at his table with such aplomb. Who was even now regarding him without smiling, clearly lost for a moment in her own thoughts.

He was hot and sweaty inside the heavy polyester suit, and he itched in several places he couldn't reach in a public setting.

If this weren't Christmas, he would have given the unfortunate young man who had been sick all over his tuxedo a tongue-lashing he would never forget. But permanently crossing him off all future guest lists would have to do.

At least he had removed the long beard and gauntlet gloves, although he feared his face, neck, and hands were still pink with irritation. 

No, this wasn't the Christmas evening he had anticipated for so many months. Reinstated on the Task Force, her hair dyed dark and once again pulled severely back from her face, Lizzie had shown him just a glimpse of the warmth he had enjoyed during their travels when he proffered the invitation.

He was an old fool, and this mishap was no more than he deserved.

"I came for you, not for your clothes."

Red blinked across the table, watched as if in a slow moving dream as Lizzie raised her glass in his direction, then took a slow sip, her lips lingering at the rim of the glass in a gesture as unmistakable as it was bold.

He licked his lips in response as he raised his own glass, trying inwardly to make sense of her words.

"For me?" he managed.

Heaven help him, if she responded with some request for information the Task Force needed, or the name of the next blacklister, he was done with this party. With the rest of this entire year.

He could take the rest of that crate of vintage champagne back up to his suite, and anyone who hadn't already come to his table to offer him discrete greetings here in the bar could make their way upstairs at their leisure.

The hotel was rented throughout the New Year, so he'd need more than one crate. He could find Dembe, ask him to send the plane to Reims ...

"Red?"

Lizzie wasn't speaking, she was just looking at him, and as he stared back, feeling his lips curling back into the beginning of a snarl, knowing his bitterness would only drive her away, she set down her glass and rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet.

***

He looked up at her, his oval face flushed and damp with sweat above the high collar of his fuzzy red Santa suit, his palms now splayed wide on the table as if he was bracing himself in place. His green eyes were wide as she circled the table, and she knew, she just knew he was remembering a pen in his neck, in what seemed like another lifetime, so many years ago.

If she got this wrong, if she had somehow misunderstood him, she had the excuse of the alcohol. And that they rarely saw each other any longer. But she had to know. She had to at least try.

"For you, Red," she repeated, and then she moved his outstretched arm aside and lowered herself to sit gingerly on his lap, feeling his thighs tighten beneath her to support her weight as he drew a deep, audible breath.

"You have a wish to tell Santa?" he whispered incredulously in a deep, husky voice.

The fuzzy suit was soft against her bare arms as she lightly embraced him, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

It was Christmas, and as it turned out, the Concierge of Crime needed no mistletoe at all.


End file.
